Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

2 November 2025

Theirs is the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, 20 miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of this thing they call Ebbsfleet, a name with no town, was gained on a forgettable afternoon towards evening. At such a time through the modern miracle of the internet I found out for certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was to be the future.

It may currently just be a church house, gin house, school house and an outhouse but, by golly, they'll call it Ebbsfleet Garden City soon.

On a bright and surprisingly warm winter's day Town lined up in the standard 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Lavelle, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Svanthorsson, Walker, Khouri, Vernam and Rose. The substitutes were Casper, Warren, McEachran, Green, Oduor, the artist still known as Amaluzor, Burns, Soonsup-Bell and Kabia. OK, Big Dave means business; with just Green and McEachran provided with respite there's no rest for the best of the rest. Except Mr Burns, but who among us hasn't been pining for the fjords? Go big, go early, go ahead you seagulls.

Ebbsfleet turned up in red with old Jake, an ancient mariner, an early victim of the hollow man.

The guests are met, the feast is set, let's hear the merry din. Is there anyone in? Here comes the banana skin, hold your nose!

1st half – A bleak house
Town kicked off towards 178 daytrippers and a sea of red seats. The temperature's dropping, cup fever is low, we've all got cup cold turkey, we'd like Town players to run. Just about, a little teensy-weeny bit, now and again.

Town tickling slowly, sideways and back to Pym and over to Lavelle, back to Pym, back to Pym, back to Pym. You have an increasing desire to go to sleep, you cannot resist it.

I shall count to ten back passes. The upper lids are getting heavier and heavier; you are only hearing Pym's voice; the desire to go to sleep is getting stronger every second. Your body is relaxed, your eyes are closed, you are completely still. You are sleeping. You are sleeping. You are sleeping.

We are sleeping, Town are only sleepwalking. I lift my head, I'm still yawning, and it's dawning on us all that Oduor is on the pitch and Khouri is at left-back. I'm sorry, please bear with me, I need to go into some reversion therapy. I see a bucket and a spade with an ice cream van, Mr Whippy I think. No, that's not it, that's the old sandpit near the old zoo in 1968. I see Sweeney tumble, I see Sweeney holding his shoulder, I see Sweeney substituted after ten minutes.

Ten minutes gone, 20 minutes gone, I'm going, going gone. Please don't spoil my day I'm miles away, Town are still sleeping, still strolling everywhere at no speed.

The Fleets flowing, the stripes not ebbing, for to ebb one must flow first and to have something to recede from. A red corner or three, higgles, piggles, a minor scramblette and Jake the Hess wildly walloped way over after a half-cleared corner. A red tumble in the shadows of the Ramstand, a chipped free kick and Jumping Jake flashed, but it's all right now. The ball sailed over the unmolested Hessmeister and plopped into Pym's hands.

Town taking their time. We're lying there and staring at the this unappealing gloop. A fearful team, all in black and white, limping and shivering through the minutes as those above them glared and growled.

Huh. Hah! Huh. Vernam dissolved after a brief bubble and a fleeting glimpse of the Icelandic glider out on the corner of their area as Svanthorsson dribbled and wibbled without heft on their left. Town: full of enervation not innovation.

The sun came up upon Town's left and out of the sea came he. And he shone so bright as on their right Seaman pounded free. Free, free, he's been set free. On he bounded and as McJannet neared the bounder slapped low. Pym, perhaps as an homage to Onana the Banana flopped to his near post and the able Seaman's slapshot squirtled under the custardian to a crescendo of silence and indifference. Six seconds later the hillock of Kentsmen returning from the bar realised that sometimes dreams do come true.

And now the counterblast came, and Town was tyrannous and strong. Yeah, right. Seaman almost struck with his overtaking wings as he chased and crossed along the six-yard box, just in front of a single red toe.

Shall we ponder Town's lack of motion, it's the only subject of the conversation: we're going up around the bend watching this tripe.

At a point that existed in time, but not in my mind, Town moved to three at the back. Vernam Vernamated highly and widely after doing the Vernam shuffle. What is sometimes sweet is more often sour. Town are stuck, no breath, no motion, as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.

Sumptuous passing and movement and into the penalty area Seaman surged. A trio of striped socks converged and down plunged the flying fullish back. You could say the ground hushed, but as it was in a coma, the silence was deafening as the referee pointed towards the spot. The spot on the six-yard line where Pym should take a goal kick. Eyebrows were raised. Very loudly.

As a Fleeters' duo fell foul of the ref's temperament, six minutes were added. A ball bouncing in front of the away bench, the red Ben Chapman lunged, Walker leapt like a salmon and squealed like a pig. Out came a red card and the outcome was Kentish fury.

And, don't you know, Town were released from their dungeon of dross and The Wolds Panther danced and dragged wide of the near post. That, my fellow Townites, was the first shot to penetrate the red carboard wall. The first. In added time. Against a team from two divisions below playing with ten men.

And then Rose scored but was offside. Yeah, whatever. That's not enough to stop us from tutting as you trot off.

Our lot are playing like they resented being picked, and we resent being allowed into watch this nonsense. Pace and passion, we'd like them to be back in fashion.

2nd half – A message from the sea
Kabia replaced the rather woeful Walker at half time as Town moved to the sensational genre-busting two striker situation.

A little bit of oomph is all it takes. McJannet stepped up and drove on, surging forward and dictating play. Defence against attack, the red curtain billowing in the breeze. Town rolling left, rolling right, rolling, rolling, rolling waiting for them to roll over.

Rolling on, rolling pins, rolling, rolling, rolling down the river go the ships as rolling stock rolls by. Rodgers roamed into the path of Oduor's dissection. A cross bumbled off ankles, Vernam's air shot distracted, his actual shot buffled off red shins and shoes and rolled to Rose who stabbled in from two yards.

Well, there we are, Town's greater skill and fitness had finally borne fruit with a classic goal from the under-13s Sunday League.

Football at its finest, Keystone coppery, and a Town corner slapsticking around. A shot, a shot and a mishit and a shot. Vernam shuffled and crinkled and the ball boombled off a collection of static red caravans. Rose, a yard out, clapped against the keeper and McJannet, standing on the goal line, nodded in.

Well, there we are, Town's greater skill and fitness had finally borne fruit with a classic goal from the under-10s Sunday League.

Ebbsfleet took off three players. They put three more on. Now and again they moved near the Town penalty area.

Khouri panic slashed, Svanthorsson feebly chipped, Rodgers slashed wildly, but fear not we still have Cam the Man. McJannet, McJannet, McJannet, McJannet. All roads leads to McJannet. McJannet crossed, McJannet tackled, McJannet passed, Turi passed through the eye of a knitting needle and, as Bellagambi sighed left, the ball diverted right and right down the middle of the goal from Rose’s hip.

Forget it, Jake, this is Grimsby Town. And off he went.

Town took three players off, Town put three more players on. Oh, you actually want to know these actual facts for factual accuracy? Rodgers, Vernam and Rose were replaced by Warren, Amaluzor and Soonsup-Bell.

The upper lids are getting heavier and heavier; the desire to go to sleep is getting stronger every second. Blimey, is that time? Six minutes were to be added. Amaluzor advanced, a cross and cross-shot, sliding by a stretching Svanthorsson and nicking past the post off Soonsup-Bell's toes, just a yard out.

They had a header and then they headed home to their tomatoes.

Well, that's done and dusted, we need never think of this turgid abomination again.